And The Sun Cuts Its Head Off
by gokulex59
Summary: ...and bled its beauty on the lake. (Drabble.)


**This is inspired by silly-dawqqy's latest work on tumblr. **

**Spoiler warning: Character death**

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It was not enough.

Faster than speed of light so that your environment was slow, too slow to catch up on you so that you'd be practically heading back in time, your molecules adjusting back and forth so that you've been existent and alive for a thousand years. Sherman knows this is what inspired his father to build the WABAC; to be together for a thousand years, holding hands and fight back against never-ending conflicts of humans.

But what is a thousand years, really? Just a grain of sand slipping down in the enormous hourglass of the universe. Barely enough for a star to grow, barely enough for a respiratory tract to evolve. Become the light, and you wouldn't be able to cross one galaxy in such a time.

It can never be enough.

Breathing in the damp air around the river, Sherman is quick to drop down on the mud, shoes long gone for the impatience of his feet to meet the fresh, cold water. The nature is fully awake with rather melodious sounds of vertebrates, and it only takes a time span of his pinky finger twitching to figure out it is spring; likely April, if the tone in some birds' mating calls are anything to go by.

The low temperature of the flowing river is refreshing.

Sherman has an urge to grab a handful of water and taste it, so that's exactly what it does. A drop of water escapes from his lips, trailing down on his chin - he wonders why the feeling is so familiar, except as if the water is supposed to be warmer and saltier.

"It is rather nice to appreciate the nature's beauty by resting beside it, indeed." His heart jumps with the smooth voice of his father, and he turns back to meet the sight of the white beagle approaching.

"It's... 20th of April, 760,349 BC, isn't it?" Sherman breathes out, eyes examining his rather smaller hands as if they hold an answer to a question he doesn't know.

Emerald eyes trail on him suspiciously, likely because there was no apparent reason for the date to be repeated, then light up as if he has found an existent reason. "It is. I am aware there presumably no reason to travel back so further in time for some fresh air; but I've always found actual solace in lands which humans lack population to discover yet."

"I'll try to take no offense to that." Sherman grins at him, his action fast to grow a smile on the dog's face.

"I've raised you as a dog, Sherman," Peabody responds, but he's only half-joking. "Smarter than most dogs, but not completely human."

Sherman understands the meaning behind it, his father's usually hidden despise of humans' hatred and senseless grudge, one that Peabody has successfully blinded Sherman of until he started school and discovered it purely reflected on azure blue eyes himself; one that he can't escape from since he has matured rather too fast in the past five years that it's almost painful.

He's only twelve years old. He wasn't supposed to understand. He doesn't wish to understand.

He watches as Peabody plops down beside him, apparently not minding the mud. "We will have a decent bath when we get back home," Peabody answers the question in Sherman's eyes. "Getting some dirt on once in a while wouldn't hurt anyone."

Sherman doesn't see a reply necessary. Instead, he tilts his head to the back, eyes watching the flight of what he can only identify as an archaeopteryx - nothing more specific. Slowly but surely, the environment is getting more silent as minutes pass further, the sun seeming to lower toward the horizon as the Earth spins by.

It's a complete silence between him and his father, but far from being an uncomfortable one.

He enjoys the soft wind of the upcoming dusk and the cool sensation water and air provides him. He finds himself wanting to lay back, to give the sight of fading sky, white clouds and mountains far away his fair appreciation fully; but instead, he turns to look at Mr Peabody.

Saying he was surprised would be an exaggeration, to discover his father also has his eyes up to the sky, but it was, for whatever reason, not a sight he has expected either. He isn't sure what he has expected, to be perfectly honest; it feels as if any sight of Mr Hector Peabody would be, even if slightly, unexpected.

A metaphorical sound of a gear sprinting in his place echoes in his mind.

Peabody turns his eyes at him, emerald orbs glinting with a rather unfitting amusement as he watches his son.

"I am not twelve, am I," Sherman breathes out.

Peabody keeps on watching him with the same amusement. Rather uncharacteristic, Sherman notes, but it's supposed to be.

"I am twenty six years old."

The amusement in Peabody's eyes remains, but it is clouded with a more endearing, more familiar emotion each passing second that has Sherman's breath catch painfully on his throat.

"I am experiencing a vivid recall of a past memory after a traumatizing event." He finishes, and scared, looks up at the image of his adoptive father before his eyes.

He easily notices the major change in the expression on Peabody's face, half-lidded eyes watching him with an agonizingly familiar compassion, the one that's always been preserved for Sherman and Sherman only.

"Just enjoy the moment, Sherman," Peabody instructs.

And Sherman decides to do just that. The harsh reality could always wait.


End file.
